On Thursday Coach Bonner did what the members of the first squad had been expecting him to do for nearly a week. That is, he had what Nick called “his annual mid-season spasm.” Declaring that the fellows had apparently forgotten the very rudiments of football, he announced no scrimmage and prescribed an afternoon of “kindergarten stuff.” The words are again Nick’s. The tackling dummy, of late more or less neglected, spent the most strenuous afternoon of its fall career. It was banged and thumped and ground in the loam until had it possessed a head, which it didn’t, its countenance must have proclaimed tragic distress. Not satisfied with a full three-quarters of an hour of tackling, Mr. Bonner put his charges at other degrading labors; passing, starting, crawling, pushing the “tumbrel.” The “tumbrel” was a wooden platform with what looked like a section of fence erected along one side. The top rail of the “fence” was padded and covered with canvas. The whole contrivance was some ten feet in length and under it were two wooden rollers. The linesmen, five at a time, alternately stood on the platform to weight the “tumbrel” down and pushed against the padded rail. The affair was officially known as the charging machine, but its operators, perhaps with the carts which bore victims to the guillotine during the French Revolution in mind, called it the “tumbrel.” Possibly it is unnecessary to add that it was just about as popular with them as the other vehicle was with its occupants.
Mr. Bonner gave an excellent imitation of a slave driver that Thursday afternoon, even looking the rôle as well as acting it. Simon Legree, cracking his whip in a performance of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” was a genial, mild-mannered gentleman by comparison. After the others were dismissed he exhibited an absolutely medieval cruelty by keeping the punters and drop-kickers at work until it was too dark to tell a ball from a head-guard.
The second team, with no scrimmage to take part in, was dismissed a half hour earlier than usual. Most of the members hurried from the scene, but a few heartless ones stood about and gloated over the sufferings of their antagonists. One of these was Brewster Longley, and he and Ned Musgrave, center on the first, and a natural rival, almost came to blows on one occasion when Ned took exception to one of Longley’s humorous gibes. Davy thereupon “shooed” the idlers away from the side-lines in a fine flow of English strongly tinctured with Welsh brogue.
Perhaps Longley resented having his pleasure cut short and perhaps his resentment was accountable for what happened when he met Hugh and Peet in front of the field house. Peet, although engaged in remorseless rivalry with Hugh for a half-back position on the second, had taken rather a violent liking to him and was becoming somewhat of a nuisance, although Hugh didn’t let Peet suspect it. Peet was an upper middle fellow, a few months younger than Hugh and extremely uninteresting. He seldom ventured an original remark on any subject, confining his conversational contributions to frequent giggles which Hugh was beginning to find irritatingly monotonous. Today Hugh had lingered long over his shower and dressing in the hope that Peet would take his departure. But no such luck, for there was the other boy awaiting him when he was ready to go, and they passed out of the building together and almost into the arms of Longley and Bowen, the latter right guard on the second and rather a crony of Longley’s.
Hugh murmured an apology for his share in the narrowly averted collision and Peet laughed his inane giggle. Bowen nodded and pushed past, but Brewster Longley seized Hugh’s arm and swung him round. “Hey there, my cockney friend!” he exclaimed. “Want the whole place to yourself?”
Hugh had a peculiar aversion to being “pawed,” as he termed it. Even if Bert, of whom he was really fond, laid a hand on his shoulder, Hugh was uncomfortable until it was removed. Longley’s unexpected and unwelcome familiarity exasperated him instantly, and it was that grasp of his arm and not the words accompanying it which sent the blood to his cheeks and made him wrench himself indignantly away.
“Hands off, please,” he said. Tone and manner were distinctly haughty, and Longley flared up at once.
“Oh, mama! Don’t touch me, I’m ticklish! Why, you blooming British ass, don’t you try any of your high-and-mighty airs on me or I’ll slap you on the wrist and break your watch!”
Peet giggled, and then, possibly realizing that appreciation of Longley’s joke savored of treachery to Hugh, passed into a fit of coughing. That giggle was the last straw to Hugh’s exasperation.
“I’ve had more than enough of your sort of humor, Longley,” he said hotly, “and I don’t propose to stick it any longer. You steer clear of me after this or——”